


Kind of Blue

by adjovi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjovi/pseuds/adjovi
Summary: I wanted to try something from the Monster's perspective and this short little ditty was born. And, yeah. It's weird in there.





	Kind of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" album.

The Very Thought of You. Under My Skin. Chopin’s Nocturnes. Life On Mars. The Sky Is Crying. Blue in Green. That one. A lot. Something unhooked, unhinged, going a different way. The long way around. So very painfully, perfectly, human. Makes him sway; feels it inside. Dance, they call it. This. Movement. To Brian’s music. He wants to share, spread it around. This feeling. But, also. Keep. Just for himself. He never had that before. Not like--this. He wants _him_ to understand, wants to share. Wants to want to share. But, the other he’s--. Not him. Not anymore. They made him this other Quentin-shaped _thing_.

“Please.” Brian’s voice cracks. He said this many times. “I don’t—please. Just let me go.” He’s so perfectly right-sized, just enough. He can completely be covered.

“Bri-an.” He tries the word on his tongue. It does not fit. The music shifts. Something spikes through him, feeling the change. “Please, Brian.”

“What do you want?” Eyes so big. He remembers when those eyes were soft on _his_. Glowing with torchlight. Uncertain. Yearning. He remembers _Quentin_. Not his. Eliot’s. Scritch-scratching against the sides. The music, this part, right here, makes him ache. How do they do that, with just noise? “ _Please._ ” He wants it all. All the parts and bits. To know. There is so much to be knowing, here. He wants to touch, to feel warmth. Quentin’s soft skin. But he is not _him_. Neither of them are who they are supposed to be. Not right now. “Do you like dancing?” He’s not sure how to move to this part.

“What? Are you fucking crazy?” Which. Should be obvious. At this point. Of course. He holds out a hand, Brian bats it away. Suit yourself. He sways. “What the fuck is this? Just let me go.”

“Hmm.” He spins slowly, thinks that is what he is meant to do. Eliot _scratches_. He ignores this. It will go away. Could take decades, certainly less than a century. He has time. He’s done it before. “We should find the others, you know? So many who are owed my wrath.” This part is so very, very joyful.

“You said that already.” He backs away, Brian does, trying to put space between. Backed up against the counter. Eyes wide in the wrong way. “Who are we supposed to find? Oh, fuck.”

He danced. Moves around, arms open and wide. This space his own. “Quen--”. Nope. “Brian. Your friends. _Our_ friends.”

“Who do you think I am?” Brian. He even smelled different. Just a little, but enough. “Do you think I'm your ex, or something?”

He stopped. “Is that why you are afraid?” He cocked his head, ignoring the scratching, ignoring the music.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Brian shook his head, out of his mind. “You pull me here. _Pull_ me from _midtown_. Have some weird Miles Davis fetish. Say you want to take out your enemies, like some super villain.” He is breathing hard, his heart. So fast. He can hear it, even over the scratches.

He holds out his hands. Like Ora had done. It will be ok. “I am not going to hurt you. Never. Not you.”

“Not comforting.” Brian stretches his neck, looking around. To leave him.

“You wanted to stay, you know. You chose this. _He_ chose this.” He takes a breath, the music flowing through him. Why hadn’t he known? She’d kept this from him. What else had she been hiding? A lot, obviously. Given. Where they were.

“Fuck, dude.” Brian, said. The lost boy.

He felt like--was it? TETRIS? The pieces fitting together, the L-shaped bit snug around the square. Or maybe he was the dog. Laughing, when they missed the duck? Was that what he was supposed to feel when he won? Could he _win_? That’s why. He doesn’t like to focus on Quentin. There’s just. So much. So easy to get _so_ lost. ‘It’s ok.” He soothes. Feeling the music. Willing it towards. Beside. _In_ side. To be enough.

Brian shifted, hearing something at the door. Racing frantically over, barring his whole weight against it. “Matty? Don’t come in here! Call 9-1-1!” But the doorknob is turning.

“Bri? Open the door, Brian!” The voice is muffled behind the thick wood.

And, that’s when he _knows_. This place. Made for a duet. Twin mugs in the sink, two coats by the door. Two men, formally dressed, beaming at each other in a framed photo. Eliot _scratching_ , almost to the music. He has to see. He jerks his fingers and the new man slides through the open door. Into his hand. He squeezes. Looking at this face. Someone’s idea of a joke. Ora had told him about jokes. Because the face looks almost like his own. Differences, of course. The eyes a bright baby blue. The tilt of the chin.

Brian launches himself at him, all fists of fury. “Let him go, you fucking bastard!” And, he can’t have that. So, he reaches out, squeezing him. Has to pull him up, to make up the height. This is how they fit, too. Brian’s face twists into something like _hate_ , and he didn’t know Quentin could ever look like that.

He’s done with this dance. He reaches into Matty, pulling at important bits. They hit the floor with a thudding squelch. And, then. Matty is crumpling, a puppet whose strings have been cut. He lets Brian go as well and he falls, _falls_ , and is _screaming_. So. Loud. Drowning out the music, drowning out Eliot. “Nonononono.” He is trying to shuffle forward, just a little. There is so much blood. Funny, how it makes a circle. “Oh, my God! Oh, my--Matty! Oh, Matty! You killed my _husband_! Oh, God. Oh, Jesus fuck. I just want to die. Oh, it hurts so much!” Rocking back and forth, out of rhythm. Mouth open, but no sound coming out. No sound left. Blood splattered his pressed grey shirt, soaking the knees of his khakis. Not Quentin’s uniform.

And, enough. The drums picking out a staccato. He flicks one finger, sending Matty away, all his bits and blood. All that is left is Brian, staring at the space where his husband used to be. He swallows several times. “What have you done? Where did he go?” And, his voice. So very soft. So very _young_. Just like. Exactly like. Their _boy_. Eliot scratches, so hard. He is trying so hard. And, this will not do, either.

So, he reaches out, placing a large hand over the crown of Brian’s head. And, pulls. This thing, the black, oily slickness of this spell. His fingers keep sliding off. He has to scrabble to get a hold, two, three times. Finally gets purchase, and it is disgusting; the ichory feel of it. In his fingers. He feels his gorge start to rise, but still he _pulls_. And, out it comes with a wet, sick pop.

Now there is no sound in the room, other than the music. Quentin rocking back and forth, perfectly in time. Staring at the spot where his fake person used to be. Not his. He heaves over, vomiting right over the spot, then stands on shaky legs. Why won’t he _look_ at him? He shuffles over to the sink, turning it on. Cups the water with his hand and swished it around. Spitting. He places his hands on the basin, breathing hard for a long time. Finally, _finally_ he looks up and walks towards him. He says one word. “Eliot?” He feels the anguish, the pain behind this. Like a physical blow. Eliot definitely feels it.

He spreads his arms wide, bowing. An invitation to dance. Quentin just swallows, staring, arms so tight around himself. Protecting his middle.

The air in the room changes, the pressure shifts. Another man appears. Traveled right in. _Penny_ , Eliot’s mind supplies. Penny looks at Quentin. “Holy fuck, dude.” Penny then looks at him, and he _feels_ him. Trying to get in. To his mind.

“That’s not Eliot.” Quentin spits out as Penny reaches for his arm.

“No shit, Sherlock. We gotta go.” And, they blink away. He can trace the contrails. He will find them; fit them together again. It is then he realizes that the music. Has. Stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks--hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are love.


End file.
